


Kinda Warm, Very Nice

by LostSoftSpaceDyke



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absolute fluff, Aziraphale is loved goddamn it, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, They're both anxious and i love them ok, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i cannot express how much this is fluff, this is such pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 21:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostSoftSpaceDyke/pseuds/LostSoftSpaceDyke
Summary: Aziraphale reads out loud and Crowley can't help it if the warmth of his voice and his touch make him drift off.





	Kinda Warm, Very Nice

Crowley, despite coming straight from Hell, has never been warmer in his life. In fact, he’d argue that Hell has never been warm so much as it has been excruciatingly hot. Hell is like being at your grandma’s house during the summer, having to deal with an air conditioner that hasn’t seen maintenance since 1963. It’s sweaty and humid and gross like an overcrowded swamp filled with your least favourite people. Crowley spends as little time down there as he can. 

No, right now, Crowley is pleasantly warm. It’s like wearing a hand knit sweater in front of a lit fireplace, knowing everything outside is cold as shit but you’re inside, safe and comfortable. It’s like falling asleep on Aziraphale’s upstairs window seat with the warmth of the sun on your face. It’s the exact same feeling he gets when he sees Aziraphale excited about some book or other. A sort of...reassured _ nice _feeling. 

Exactly the sort of thing he would have scoffed at even just a few weeks ago. 

He can’t help it though. Aziraphale’s fingers are so soft as they run through his hair, carding gently and scratching lightly at his scalp. His words almost feel the same way his touch does: cozy, like they’re physically daring him to close his eyes and forget about everything. He likes this, this little thing they’ve started. It gives Aziraphale a chance to share his favourite books with Crowley without Crowley getting ridiculously distracted by every minor detail (as was usually the case when he tried to read books himself). It gives Crowley a chance to listen to books without having to bother with audiobooks (which he hates, because somehow they all circle back to him having to use a computer and he absolutely refuses to do so. He knows they don’t work. That was one of his jobs). Plus there’s the fact that its a shared activity, sort of intimate in a way, and completely theirs. Crowley doesn’t acknowledge that last part yet. Baby steps. 

“Well...may I propose to you now?” Aziraphale reads in one voice. And then it shifts, something lighter, a little vapid. “I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly beforehand that I am fully determined to accept you.”

Crowley especially likes the voices. So many of these books and plays and pieces of prose are dear to Aziraphale’s heart. He’d known their creators, inspired them and spoke with them and loved them so it was only right that the characters themselves were nearly individuals in Aziraphale’s mind, each with mannerisms Aziraphale somehow brought into the readings. At first Crowley had worried that he’d never be enough for Aziraphale, never be quite like the poets who’d written him love letters or the authors who had dedicated characters or entire novels to him. Aziraphale had picked up on that insecurity so quickly and banished it just as fast, kissing Crowley until he nearly forgot his own name before breaking it to rest his forehead against his and inform him that none of them could ever know him quite the way Crowley does. 

“Gwendolen!”

His lips twitch a bit, both at the memory and at the exaggerated way Aziraphale reads the lines. The angel never lets the animation of his reading translate to his touch, and his fingers remain soft, moving about Crowley’s hair in their usually, steady way. Between Aziraphale’s voice and his ghostly touch, Crowley lets himself shut down a bit. They’ve saved the world, scared off Heaven and Hell. No one left to fight. He feels his eyelids droop, lets his guard down.

“Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?” 

It’s an animated scene, one of the defining ones in this comedy, but Crowley is warm and Aziraphale is essentially petting him like some sort of lap dog and the demon wonders how he didn’t notice for almost six thousand years that Aziraphale pronounces his vowels in the most _ melodic _way possible.

Maybe that’s why they called angelic orders “Choirs”. He’s about to make a mental note to ask Aziraphale about that when the thought slips away just as the aforementioned angel rubs the tense spot in Crowley’s neck with his thumb. Heaven has _ nothing _ on this. Heaven wishes it were as good as Crowley feels right now. 

He doesn’t even notice that he’s drifted off until Aziraphale gives him the tiniest little squeeze on the shoulder. 

“Dear?” he asks in a murmur. Crowley has to blink a few times to fully take in his surroundings but he notices the book set aside along with Aziraphale’s forgotten mug of tea. He must have been asleep for a good while because the sound of cars from the street has died down almost completely.

“Hmm?” 

“I-If you don’t like the play, or if you don’t like my reading, you can just tell me,” the angel says, brows knit with a sort of self conscious worry that Crowley is still determined to help get rid of for good. In his sleepy state he wonders if he could just kiss it better. Maybe he should try. “It's just...you always fall asleep and I don’t really see the point in us continuing the reading if this is how it’ll be.”

Crowley sits up and he’s a mess of Aziraphale-induced bedhead and warm knit blankets but he feels like this is a sitting up conversation no matter what the cost of movement. He’s still up for kissing the angel until he feels better, but he should definitely address this first. 

“S’not that. I like the reading.”

He’s less coherent than he’d like to be, but he’d been fully asleep less than two minutes ago, so he can’t be blamed.

“You always do though. Fall asleep, I mean,” Aziraphale explains. _ Oh no he’s fidgeting. This is serious. You’ve fucked up, Crowley. _

“It’s just..._ nice _ ,” he says and he knows it sounds stupid and the words are woefully insufficient to explain how he actually feels, that warmth from before. He really can’t explain it any other way but _ nice _. “You fiddle with my hair and your voice is soft and it’s always sort of late when we start reading.”

He’s just sleepy enough to be painfully honest, even if everything he’d just said would make a common demon shrivel. He’s definitely picked up too many habits from humans. He wraps the blanket a little tighter around him to keep out the evening chill.

“You’re certain then?” Aziraphale asks and unmistakably obvious that this is something Aziraphale struggles with, worrying his interests bore other people. Crowley, in his sleep addled state, makes a mental note to punch every single angel in Heaven next time he’s there. Regardless, he’s not going to let himself go back to sleep without Aziraphale feeling completely assured that Crowley _ wants _ this _ , looks forward _ to it, even. 

“Yeah,” Crowley insists, leaning a bit against Aziraphale’s side. “Completely. The little thing you do with my scalp and the way you read, like you know the characters personally? _ Nice. _ The fact that this blanket smells like you even though I’m the only one who uses it? _ Nice. _S’just a lot. Kinda warm. Like when you eat that melty chocolate cake you like from the bakery. Nice enough it blocks everything else out and I can stop worrying ‘bout the powers that be and can just...sleep.”

His words are a drowsy mishmash of different thoughts and feelings and sensations, all desperately trying to be defined within the limited syllables of the English language. 

“It’s stupid, I know. It’s just the only time I’m okay enough to sleep,” he goes on, and he’s drooping against Aziraphale’s shoulder, knowing for a fact he can’t keep this conversation up much longer. But he’s nothing if not stubborn. 

He’s about to attempt to explain again when he feels Aziraphale’s lips press to his forehead. The angel sighs before nuzzling his hair. “You should have told me, dear.”

The kiss to his forehead, the nose against his hair, he light hand on his back. It’s all so ridiculously tender that, had Crowley not been bonelessly melting back into Aziraphale’s lap, he would have thought to kiss him back. Instead, he decides, he’ll just enjoy the warmth and drift off.  


**Author's Note:**

> Instead of studying for my Monday midterm, here I am writing fluff. Nice.
> 
> As always, let me know in the comments if you liked it! And please check out my new Tumblr! It's tiredandineffable.tumblr.com!


End file.
